The Wailing Frail (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I'd told her who was calling and she'd said sleepily, “Shell, darling ... Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that!” There was a mumbled word or two I didn't catch, while I told her not to be sorry. She told me I'd waked her up, that she was still in bed—and of course you know what the hell that did to me.

  It was a dazed and dazing conversation, and it ended finally when after my telling her I was going to Ravenswood again and would come to see her immediately after, she said, “Do, Shell. Just come up.” The sound of what might have been a stifled yawn. “I like to sleep late, but ... I'll try to be out of bed and dressed.”

  “You—Don't go to any trouble, not just for me.”

  She laughed. “Oh, go on. I'll see you here when you get back.” But then her voice sobered, became more awake. She told me to find out what was going on out at Ravenswood, but to be careful. Her voice was worried. She seemed awake, finally, and remembering.

  The lift that conversation gave me lasted me clear out to Ravenswood, detours and all considered. But the sight of that bare white building standing alone in the clearing and surrounded by trees, the mottled grass before it, took most of the pleasure out of my system again.

  The driver waited while I went inside. The same man was behind the counter. He walked to the same door, brought back the same man—Director Beecham.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Scott. Right on time.”

  “Yeah. How's Mr. Todhunter?”

  “The same. Of course, electro-shock usually takes a few weeks and several treatments. This was Todhunter's first.”

  It took him about fifteen seconds to get out those few words. It was as if he had to examine each word, weigh it, spell it, look it up in the dictionary, and finally say it.

  “Let's go see him.”

  “Very well. Come along.”

  He turned and walked down the freshly waxed and polished corridor to approximately its middle, where another hallway bisected it. There he turned left. On our right were closed doors numbered 100, 101, 102 and so on up to 110. The director stopped before 109.

  “You understand,” he said softly, “that—Well, you mustn't be too disturbed by the change in him.”

  That rang a little warning bell in my brain. I said, “What do you mean? Doesn't he look the same as he did a couple of weeks ago.”

  The director looked straight at me. “Of course. In every measurable sense, Mr. Scott. But surely you know what I mean. The eyes ... the attitude ... the posture...”

  The words, his voice, the grating sound as his key turned in the lock, make me feel clammy, uncomfortable, a little chilled. It was the kind of feeling you get on a cool moist day when the sun suddenly goes behind a cloud and you don't at first realize what caused the change.

  Beecham pushed the door open and stepped inside. He motioned me to join him.

  As I stepped into the room, Beecham shut the door gently.

  A tall man with thick brown gray-flecked hair sat on the side of a small bed. He wasn't looking in our direction as we came in, and his profile was toward me. It was a striking face. The lines were sharp, angular, strong. It made me think of a not-quite-finished sculpture, the head done in a rough masculine fashion with the chisel marks and lines and gouges obvious in the stone.

  Because he was seated I couldn't be sure, but he seemed extremely tall, probably taller than I, with a loose raw-boned frame and a nice breadth of shoulder. His hands rested one over the other in his lap, and they were big, strong hands. There was nothing weak about this man. Nothing, at least, that I could yet see.

  And in every respect he was identical with the photographs of her father that Toddy had showed me. It was Todhunter, all right.

  “Mr. Todhunter—Gordon,” the director said softly. “Gordon?”

  The man didn't move. He didn't turn his head toward us.

  All sorts of ideas went through my head. This was the man who had scribbled that note to me on the envelope sent to his daughter. A hastily written note, yes, but not necessarily insane, nothing that a sane man in trouble might not have hurriedly written. And I thought that perhaps Todhunter had been pretending here, for days, held against his will and pretending to be ill so that when the proper time arrived...

  Then Beecham repeated, “Gordon. Gordon Todhunter. This is Mr. Scott. He wants to talk to you.”

  The man's head turned slowly. “Not—not—not—” he said. His lips lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped again, then became still, pressed together. His brows pulled down sharply, deep creases appearing suddenly between his eyes, and his forehead wrinkling. He turned his head far to his left and down, but the eyes stayed on me, rolled far to the right and raised to look at my face. The eyes were wildly staring, filled with dark suspicion.

  He stared at me. And then, suddenly, he began to giggle.

  Todhunter's lips spread loosely and he continued to giggle, inanely, senselessly.

  His eyes rolled away from me, then back.

  Look at the eyes around you, or at your own in the mirror. A man's eyelids normally rest close to the pupil, or perhaps halfway between the pupil and the iris's edge. But this man's eyes showed no semblance of normality. Around the eyes, in the skin and flesh of his forehead and cheeks, and the lines of his face and at the bridge of his nose, were the little puffs and wrinkles of stress and torturing emotions. The lids were pulled wide, an ugly band of white between them and the dark brown iris of his eyes.

  I heard the director saying, “It's no use, Mr. Scott. Are you satisfied now?”

  There seemed something strange in the way he said it, but maybe I was just imagining that. I went outside with him, watched him as he closed and locked the door.

  With part of my mind still in that small room, I asked, “What have you done to him?”

  He'd started to walk back down the corridor, but he stopped and looked at me strangely. “I don't understand.” He paused. “You might, rather, ask what God has done to him.” Then he shrugged and walked ahead of me down the corridor.

  I stepped along with him. As we walked he said, “The mentally ill, Mr. Scott. They are ill just as a polio patient is ill, or a man with a severe infection. But in most cases we still do not know what happened in their brains, what it is that races like tiny mice along the channels of their nerves.” He shrugged. “Some we can help. Perhaps we can help this one. Who knows?” At the door to his office he said, “Did you wish anything else?”

  “No. Thank you, Dr. Beecham.”

  “Not at all. Good-by, Mr. Scott.”

  The cab driver took me downtown to the Gorgon Café, where I got out. There I phoned the Civic Building and talked to Senator Lester Beasley, bringing him up to date on what I'd been doing. He agreed that the investigation of Todhunter, Stone's death, and following up on the two men who'd tried to kill me last night, was the most important thing I could be doing—not only from my point of view, which was obvious, but also from the committee's.

  I asked Beasley where Joe Rule was and he gave me a couple addresses where the kid was going to be. I told Beasley I'd like to borrow him for part of the afternoon, and got an okay.

  It took me about ten minutes to locate Rule, but he said he'd come to the Gorgon as soon as he could. I'd finished a big lunch of rare prime ribs and a massive baked potato when he arrived. He joined me in a beer while I brought him up to date.

  “So,” I went on, “I've just got back from there. This Todhunter's a big, gray-haired egg with a face like cliffs and valleys, right?”

  “That's him. Got a Viking look. Seemed too bad when I saw him, the day he was committed.” Joe took a swig of his beer, looking almost too young to be drinking it legally.

  I said, “Is there any chance the man you saw was somebody else? Not Todhunter?”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance. Don't know why you're asking that one, but there's nothing there.”

  We batted it around. He gave me a dozen reasons why the man was Gordon Todhunter, and he convinced me, but there was still one angle I wanted to
check. “Okay, Joe,” I said. “Now, I'd never seen Todhunter before this morning, though I've got some pictures of him. Here.” I got them out of my wallet and showed them to Rule. “This the guy?”

  He studied the pictures and nodded. “Close enough. Hard to say for sure from little snaps like those. But it looks like the guy.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, here's the deal. You saw the man at the commitment proceedings. If you got a peek at the one in Ravenswood, then you could say for sure whether or not it's the same man. Right?”

  “Right.” He finished the beer and looked at me. “Doesn't sound like a mountainous job—but what's got you so hot on this angle, Shell?”

  “It's pretty important to me to find out if that guy's Todhunter or not. And to somebody else. Which reminds me. Have you met his daughter?”

  Rule shook his head. “Dope I got said she was out of the state.”

  “She was, until just a day or two ago.”

  “Should I meet her?”

  I looked at his handsome, square face, the glossy wavy hair, the grin showing strong white teeth. “No. She's a horrible bag.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I'm kidding. But you wouldn't want to meet her. You're too young for such a shock. Let your nervous system get all toughened up first. Like mine.”

  He kept grinning. “Oh, sure. Well, what's with this Ravenswood bit?”

  “Here's how it looks. There's a crazy guy out there in Room One-oh-nine. If he's Todhunter, that's the end of it. Check it. If it's not Todhunter, but just somebody who looks a hell of a lot like him, that's a different story entirely. Whichever way it is, one peek by you should wrap it up.”

  Rule said, “So he's a crazy one. So was the guy in court—and I know he was Todhunter. So what do you expect to prove?”

  I shook my head. “I'm not sure, Joe. But something's real wrong out there. I can't put my finger on it yet, but if we keep poking something ought to give.” I got out my cigarettes, lit one and went on, “Here's one way you could work it. I overheard something about a guy named Howard in One-oh-three while I was out there. Maybe you could pretend to be visiting Howard, and get a chance to open One-oh-nine with a skeleton key and peep in. They're pretty close to each other, in the same wing of the building. Just a thought. You got any ideas?”

  “That sounds all right. I'll check the records before I go out, and dig up all I can on the guy this afternoon. Couple other things I have to do before I drive out to Ravenswood, anyway. That all you got? Just the last name Howard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I'll get more dope on him—or pick somebody else out of the records. That's all you want, huh? Make sure the man in One-oh-nine is the guy I saw at the hearings?”

  “That's it. But listen. It could be that this Todhunter knows why those eggs last night tried to blast me—even if he is clear outside his skull most of the time. There's already murder in this mess, and there might be more. So don't stick your neck out.”

  “Don't worry.”

  “I'd do it myself, only they know me out there already. I wouldn't have much chance of sneaking into the right room.”

  “Good enough. Want me to call you when I'm through there?”

  “Yeah. I'll be at my apartment, or—” I thought a minute, then got out pencil and paper and wrote on it not the name of the Biltmore Hotel, but the number, and Toddy's room number. I handed it to him and said, “Or this number and extension.”

  He looked at it. “That's a funny number.”

  I didn't say anything. I had said too much about the lovely Toddy already. If I told him that was her hotel and room, it was quite possible that I'd knock on the door later, and Joe would open it. This way, he might never know. He stuck the paper in his shirt pocket and said, “Good-o. Well, I'm off. Call you later.” He left.

  I headed for the Biltmore, making one short detour on the way.

  I went though the big lobby and on up the stairs. Toddy, after all, had told me over the phone this morning to “Come on up.”

  At her door I knocked gently and waited. There wasn't any answer, so I knocked harder. After that Toddy's soft voice said, “Who is it?”

  “Shell.”

  “Oh, Shell. Just a moment.”

  Then she swung the door open and stood there blinking at me. I blinked at her, too.

  She bad, I supposed, been lying down, for she was wearing the kind of thing that lovely women lie down in. It was some filmy and lacy garment that, while not actually too revealing, was enough to overtax my endocrines. A couple more sights like this and they would disintegrate in small explosions.

  “Come on in, Shell.”

  I went inside and she shut the door. “I didn't sleep at all last night,” she said. “At least it seemed like it. Worrying, wondering ... I Just now woke up. I'm sorry I always seem half asleep when we talk.”

  “I've no complaints.”

  “What's all that? Why, Shell—you're sweet. But what's it for?”

  She was looking at the stuff in my arms. I'd stopped down below and picked up some roses and champagne, and even two champagne glasses in a paper sack. “This,” I said quietly, “is to take a little sting out of what I've got to tell you.”

  “Oh.” Her face got sober, a little tense. “He's all right, isn't he? Isn't he?”

  “Wait a shake. I saw him—I think. And he was—he wasn't well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. The man I saw needed help, treatment. He was mentally ill. That doesn't mean he won't be all right in time, but he's sick. Just like a man with pneumonia's sick; it takes time for a cure.”

  She shook her head slowly back and forth, groped for a chair and sank into it. “Here, take this stuff,” I said. I handed her the flowers and champagne and the paper sack, wanting to give her something to do, for these few seconds at least.

  Toddy got to her feet again, took the flowers and wine and walked out of the room. In a minute she returned with the roses in a vase, still carrying the big magnum of champagne and the two glasses. I described the man at Ravenswood and Toddy said, “It's Dad. Nobody else looks like that. Even just from hearing you describe him I know it's Dad.”

  “I'm sorry, Toddy.”

  “But I don't understand.” She really looked bewildered, dazed. “How could anything like that happen so fast?”

  “A lot can happen in a year.”

  “What?” She looked at me as if she were really hearing my voice for the first time and identifying it with me. At least she looked surprised.

  I said, “It's just me, Shell Scott, bearing champagne and roses—”

  “Shell, that was sweet of you. I'm sorry, but this is sort of a shock. Maybe I expected it, but—Here—” She handed me the bottle. “You open it. I'll have a little sip with you.”

  “Good. Toddy, you might as well let what I've told you sink in. But you should know, too, that I'm still working an angle—that is I've got a guy named Joe Rule working on it. If a call comes from him, it's for me. It's just possible things aren't as bad as they look.”

  “What's that?”

  “No sense explaining it. I just thought I'd mention it.”

  She shook her head again. “It's so strange. Can a man get so sick in less than a year? And what about that note to you, Shell? What does it mean?”

  I shook my head. “There you've got me. But I mean to find out before I'm through.” I was working at the cork on the magnum.

  Toddy held one of the champagne glasses forward as I worked the cork loose. I knew that Toddy must be used to drinking champagne, so I tried to do it like that smooth guy on radio and TV. I smiled, tugged, and the cork came out with a hearty thoop, narrowly missing Toddy's right eye, and bouncing off the wall.

  I poured the clear bubbling wine into the glass Toddy held forward, then filled the second one.

  “It's a lovely sound, isn't it?” she said. But her eyes, and I guessed her thoughts, were still distant.

  “It is, Toddy. Well, her
e's to better news.”

  Toddy walked to a black divan against the wall, sat down on it and crossed her legs. “Sit down, Shell,” she said. “Relax a little.”

  I sat down in a chair near her, but I didn't relax.

  I was torn between two desires. Toddy was absolutely gorgeous in the intimate apparel she wore, and it was delightful to look at her. But I was almost ready to ask that she put on something else, like old blue jeans or a quilt, because all I intended to do, no matter how long I sat here, was just talk and maybe look a bit.

  That kiss Toddy had planted on me yesterday had set up vibrations I could still feel, and they felt good, and I would have welcomed even newer and perhaps better vibrations. But not today. Not when I was the bearer of bad news that could conceivably cause her to let her guard down. Not when she perhaps felt so alone and desolate that she might welcome a kiss or caress for that reason and for no other. I am without a doubt a lustful old cat at times, but I intended neither to take the pennies from a dead man's eyes nor to woo Toddy this afternoon. Any other afternoon, yes. Yes, indeed. But not today, of all days.

  But man, I was starting to wish she'd put some more clothes on.

  I had meant to talk to Toddy most of the afternoon if she'd have me. To sit and sip the champagne—just keep her company, at least until Joe Rule called. But it looked as if I'd have to take that call at my apartment. We'd had the one glass of champagne apiece, and while it wasn't much, it was warm in my stomach. It was warm, and getting hot.

  Toddy, I thought, was a lot like the chilled champagne. When her face was composed, quiet, she had a look of coolness about her but you knew there was warmth inside.

  She turned her head and looked at me, and those brown eyes hit me hard when her gaze fell on me suddenly. She didn't look away.

  Finally I stood up. “I have to go, Toddy.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. I've let my work for the committee go too long. Wanted to sit around a minute, make sure you're all right.” My tongue felt thick. There was a tension all through my body.

  She was looking at me strangely. “It's funny,” she said.

  “What's that?”